


Just Busy

by megascops



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Backstory, Big Brother Sans, Child Neglect, Dad W. D. Gaster, Deaf Character, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Mentioned Parent Death, POV Sans, Parent Death, Pre-Canon, Sad, Sign Language, a little autobiographical whoops, gaster is deaf, gaster uses sign language, sans is a teen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 03:30:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5952097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megascops/pseuds/megascops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The old grandfather clock strikes midnight, and it's officially the day after my fifteenth birthday.<br/>Dad promised we would "do something fun" for the occasion, but he hasn't been home since he left for work two days ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Busy

**Author's Note:**

> hey! so this is my first time trying to write undertale fanfic and the first time in a LONG time i've been confident enough to post my writing publicly, so critique is welcome and appreciated!

_12:00_  
  
The old grandfather clock strikes midnight, and it's officially the day after my fifteenth birthday.  
  
Dad promised we would "do something fun" for the occasion (most likely taking me to see the new wing of some museum, but I wouldn't have minded that), but he hasn't been home since he left for work two days ago. He probably isn't dead. If he were we would get a call within minutes and then have headlines like 'ROYAL SCIENTIST DEAD' blasted in our faces from the minute we woke up. Besides, he comes home late all the time, whether he's late by hours or late by weeks.  
  
Of course, there's always possibilities, that's what he taught me. Possibilities such as he could be dying right this minute. Or he's been out for hours and the phones are out and they for some reason couldn't spare even a single monster to come and tell us in person. Or everyone in the Underground was wiped out in the thirteen hours since I talked to someone who doesn't live in this house, and me and my little brother were miraculously spared. Or everyone is in a state of neither and both life and death, Schrodinger's Cat style. But worrying never helped anything, so I try not to consider the possibilities this time.  
  
I try not to be too disappointed that Dad broke his promise. He's just busy, I tell myself. I'm not entirely sure what he does as the Royal Scientist, but it's gotta be important, right? Otherwise they wouldn't be so secretive about it. He didn't mean to leave me alone on my birthday. He's just busy.  
  
There's a tightness in my throat, but I fight the tears away. Stupid reason to cry.  
  
_1:00_  
  
I consider going to the bedroom I share with Paps, but decide against it because A) I've already been sitting here on the couch for two hours, and B) there's not a TV in my room, especially not one playing reruns of some old, _extremely_ interesting soap opera in which, from what I've been paying the least bit of attention to, this bunny lady is in love with a lizardy dude but he is lusting after some fire elemental person. Riveting.  
  
I put Papyrus to bed a few hours ago, as I've been doing largely by myself for the past two years since Mom _bit the dust_ (eesh, too soon. I'm a horrible son), so he sadly has to miss out on this thrilling drama. Not that he would understand a word of this dumb show anyway, but it would still be nice to have company about now, even from a five-year-old.  
  
_2:00_  
  
Dad's been doing this a lot lately, this staying at work (or whatever he does) for days on end. I can tell the neighbors are questioning it, but I'm kinda used to it now. Though I still wonder what he does there that's so important he feels it's necessary to leave his children alone for days without warning.  
  
_Don't think things like that,_ scolds the little, motherly voice in the back of my head. _It's a busy job. He probably can't help it. He's just busy. Besides, Pap is pretty capable for a baby bones, and you're fifteen now, remember? That's only three years before you're legally an adult. It's not like you need constant supervision._  
  
And I understand all that. It's just hard to keep my chin up when my Mom is dead and my Dad, without warning, switches between bad jokes and bedtime stories to staying at the lab until I call to say we're out of food (and sometimes he doesn't even come home then, which means Pap and I have to go to the store ourselves to buy more bread and instant noodles).  
  
Heh...  
  
It gets lonely sometimes, with no one here but me and the kid. Dad and I don't get along great or anything, but we still sort of... get each other - which is more than I can say for most of my peers - and, to be honest, I sorta miss him when he's gone. Mom used to say I was a lot like him.  
  
_3:00_  
  
It's around this time every night when the Bad Voice likes to make an appearance, creeping out of its hiding place in the corner of my mind to take over my whole head. The Bad Voice is very different from the chiding, motherly voice that can usually keep the disturbing things back, instead whispering things like ** _Your Dad doesn't love you. You're a disgusting waste of space. You're a freak, no wonder you have no friends,_** until my skull starts ringing. It's a thing now. We're pals.  
  
Tonight it seems to be having fun taunting me about Dad. _**He abandoned you. He would rather die than take care of you, you dependent little freak. He never really loved you. He only promised to celebrate your birthday with you to tease you. He never intended to keep that promise to begin with. "He's just busy! He's just busy!" Yeah, right, sure.**_ The Voice throws these thoughts at me, pelting me with them one after the other, and I stand there and take it. Most of the time I can tell myself that these thoughts are irrational, that it's just anxiety or lack of sleep talking. For some reason, though, the Voice is harder to shake off and easier to believe tonight in particular. There are tears coming up my throat again, and this time they're a lot harder to fight back.  
  
Dad wasn't always like this. He used to be a nice guy, and fine at being a dad. He was a little weird, but weird is okay. I bet I can still do some of the "science tricks" he taught me when I was little. I remember his face when Papyrus signed "Daddy" for the first time. I don't think I've seen him like that since.  
  
_3:46_  
  
Now the TV is playing some terrible old movie starring a little white dog. The kind of movie where they would give the dog peanut butter or something to make his mouth move to look like he's talking. The Voice in my head is still going, but quieter than before, and only repeating things it's already told me. It's running out of steam.  
  
The front door opens, and I jump so hard I can hear my bones rattle together.  
  
It's Dad. His towering frame shuffles through the doorway, head down and a mess of paper clutched in his spidery fingers. A few pages flutter lazily out of his hand and to the floor. For a moment, a flare of hope ignites in my ribcage, and the Voice goes silent, watching.  
  
I wave to get his attention. Slowly, he turns his bony face in my direction. "Hi, Dad!" I say (well, _sign._ Ol' Dad's hearing is so bad as to be almost nonexistent, and hand signs are the language he understands best).  
  
But the way he looks at me, like he doesn't even know me, like I'm not even _there,_ instantly douses the little fire of hope I don't know why I was dumb enough to light. He looks so tired ( _bone_ tired, I can't help but think). The Bad Voice resumes, jeering louder than ever. _**You see! He doesn't care about you! He'll never care about you! He hates your guts!**_ I put my hand down. He might as well have just dumped a sack of bricks on my shoulders.  
  
Dad turns his head back to the floor and lumbers off to his room, practically dripping paper. I watch him drag himself up the stairs until he's out of sight. A few seconds later, a door closes, a little too loudly. I stare at the wall behind which he disappeared for what feels like another hour, silent as the Voice continues screaming gleeful insults at me.  
  
When I finally tear my gaze away, though, I see that a page Dad dropped has floated into my reach. I pick it up and look at it. It's covered in handwritten equations. Dad's handwriting is bad at best, and completely illegible at worst, but if I squint I can make out the numbers on most of them, and even calculate a bunch of them in my head. One cool thing about having a brilliant scientist for a father is you learn calculus a lot earlier than most fourteen-year-olds.  
  
Fifteen. I'm fifteen.  
  
_4:00_  
  
Dad is snoring now. He's lucky he's deaf, otherwise he would wake himself up with how loud he is, and would have to face the glaring truth that he would rather neglect his children than miss a minute of work. He would wake up and realize that he would rather be "just busy" than be a responsible, trustworthy parent.  
  
Or not. Maybe he would congratulate himself on how great of a scientist he is. Maybe he wouldn't wake up at all, even if his ears worked. You gotta consider the possibilities.  
  
The tears come back and this time I can't stop them.


End file.
